


Regent's theatre

by melian225



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, F/M, Madness of George III, Potions, Subterfuge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11211147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melian225/pseuds/melian225
Summary: In eighteenth century London, the Prince of Wales is taking steps towards his lofty aspirations.Written for nott theodore's Historical Head Canons challenge on HPFT





	Regent's theatre

BUCKINGHAM PALACE, 1783

 

The young woman walked towards the gate nervously, but with her head held high. She had every right to be here, she knew. She just had to convince everyone else of that.

“What do you want?” the guard asked as she approached, his nose in the air as he considered her appearance.

She knew she was a sight – dress muddy, hair not done right – but she had walked for miles to be there today. While her home was only a mile away, she had been detained at the Tower Bridge and was therefore looking more bedraggled than usual.

“I’m here to see the Prince of Wales,” she said.

The guard almost laughed. “The Prince is not to be disturbed. The whole family is in mourning.”

She nodded. She knew that – of course she knew. Prince Octavius, just four years old, had died of smallpox the previous week.

“I was sent for,” she said, hoping it would work.

The guard sneered. “And who would be sending for _you_?”

“The Prince of Wales,” she said again.

He pointedly looked her up and down and then made a point of ignoring her. She didn’t really mind. She knew none of them saw her as an appropriate consort for the Prince – Catholic, twice widowed – but she also knew that George didn’t care. And she was going to see him today, supercilious guard or not.

Making the most of his pointed ignorance of her, she pulled a wand from her sleeve. “ _Confundo_!” she muttered. She’d not yet learnt how to do spells like this non-verbally and she didn’t want to draw undue attention to herself. It was bad enough that she was a Catholic – if the King found out she was a witch as well she’d be outcast for sure.

Obligingly, the guard’s eyes became unfocused and he allowed her to pass through. Once inside the grounds, it was easy enough to find George. He would be in his quarters. He always was.

Not five minutes later she was letting herself in, having also Confunded the servants she had encountered on the way. It wasn’t ideal, but it got her where she needed to be.

“Maria!” It was obvious he was pleased to see her – the way his eyes lit up and he crossed the room in barely three strides. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” she said, allowing him to pull her close and embrace her. Sure, they weren’t married, but this was behind closed doors, and it wasn’t like she was a virgin. This time, though, their clothes remained on, though the door remained shut.

“You know what they’ll be thinking,” she said cautiously, tilting her head in the direction of the door.

He gave her half a smile. “Let them think that. This is more important though.”

That had her attention. “What is?”

He looked her in the eyes. “Dad. He’s getting worse.”

She caught her breath. George’s father, the King, had been ill recently, and this latest tragedy, the death of his youngest remaining son, was a harsh blow.

“He’s not taking it well?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Let’s just say he’s not in the best state at the moment.”

She took his hand. “Does he need some more medicine?” Yes, they were alone, but it was best to keep the subterfuge up. You never knew when a servant might be lurking around a corner.

“I think he might,” George said slowly. “I mean, he did sign the Treaty, the one that recognises America, but that was before Octavius got ill. He’s really not taking things well.”

She sighed. The Treaty was important, because without it English troops might have been forced to continue to fight an unwinnable war in the new world. But he’d been ill for a long time now, and George was getting frustrated. He firmly believed that if the King was incapacitated, then the Prince of Wales ought to be installed as Regent. And the King had, he believed, been incapacitated for some time now.

Maria reached into her bosom and pulled out a glass phial. A potion of her own devising, it contained wolfsbane, asphodel, fluxweed that she had gathered at the last full moon, valerian, shredded boomslang skin and powdered moonstone, with a liberal dose of flobberworm mucus to give it the right texture. In the right proportions, this potion had given the King the symptoms of insanity, though it was taking longer to take hold than she would have thought. Still, she and George had time on their hands. They couldn’t marry until the King had lost his facility to argue, for instance – his insistence on approval all royal marriages was a significant roadblock to their aspirations.

George took the phial. “It doesn’t look like much,” he said.

She patted his hand. “I have a whole cauldron full at home. This was all I could bring in without arousing suspicion. If you want more, you’ll have to come to my rooms in Mayfair.”

He eyed the bottle suspiciously. “How long will this last?”

“You only need a couple of drops, remember? In his tea each morning, if you can manage it.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “If he keeps taking it, they’ll legislate for a Regency in no time. He’ll be that bad that they won’t have any choice.”

George smiled. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

She took his other hand and held it between her own. “You know, my lord? I don’t believe you have.”

 


End file.
